Chapter Six
Six
Jamilah flung bags of frozen goods into the freezer before momentarily sticking her own head inside.
She needed to cool off. A walk-in freezer would be nice.
It wasn’t just her misplaced anger and frustration that needed to chill but the kundalini energy spiraling inside her, craving a man’s touch. A manly man like Rashad.
He hadn’t meant to push her buttons. Yet his simple question—a fair one—had lit a fuse made ripe for striking by the morning’s phone call from her bank.
Was buying organic expensive? It could be.
Should she decrease her overall spending by making wiser food choices?
Definitely. One look at her rising debt from high-interest and almost predatory credit cards would tell the whole story.
The You’ve been preapproved enticers had come at a time when she’d had little money in her bank account and mounting business expenses.
The financial slump happened quickly and was completely unexpected.
With a variety of chicken preparations and sides with names like Creepin’ Cauli-bites, the TLT, Taste Like Tuna chickpea sandwich, Two-Timing Tomato Bisque, and Swipe Right Caesar Salad, the restaurant’s popularity happened fast, mostly by word of mouth.
When the slump brought on by the chicken chain happened, she’d hoped it would be a short one.
It wasn’t. The money dwindled along with her customers, forcing her into a countdown.
Six days open, then five, four, three, to now—from noon on Friday until six on Sunday.
She was forced to take a full-time job to make ends meet.
Fortunately Gusto, a trendy, upscale eatery in a swanky suburb, had great tippers.
Her already shaky social life became nonexistent.
The chances to date? A pipe dream. Pun intended.
Rashad’s question hit another soft spot.
The one about being second-guessed. Even though he had no restaurant experience, Walter had questioned almost every choice she’d made, from naming the place Side Chic’k to the menu she created.
Her father often joined Walter in these queries.
She’d push back by telling them to stay in their lanes.
It hurt to feel as though she’d been tag-teamed, even more so when after the breakup her father and Walter remained friendly.
Jamilah forced her thoughts from the past to the present.
She and Walter were no longer together. Her father had slowly come around to trusting her choices.
Frozen food stored, expensive organic vegetables on the counter, and control restored, Jamilah walked into the dining room.
Rashad stood with his back to her looking out the window.
His broad shoulders, tight butt, and long strong-looking legs were the stuff that dreams were made of.
“Why’d you decide on this location?” he asked, turning around as he heard her sandals on the laminate flooring.
“Opportunity. Let’s sit by the window.”
He joined her at the table.
“Did you bring a résumé?”
Rashad shook his head. “I know I should have, but—”
“Yes, you should have. But it’s okay,” she hurriedly continued to cover the fact that she’d snapped again. “This was short notice. Plus, I experienced an unofficial tasting of sorts at Monique’s party.”
He nodded.
“You’re a good cook.”
“I think I’m a great one, but…whatever.”
Clearly, this man hadn’t gone on many interviews. Patience was a virtue, and sometimes humility, too. She opened her mouth to share this POV but closed it just as quickly. She needed him more than he needed her.
“You’re from California, correct?”
“LA, born and raised.”
“How’d you get into cooking?”
“Necessity.”
Jamilah felt a whole lifetime story existed behind that one-word answer but for now chose not to push for details.
“Obviously, you like it,” she said, instead. “Would I be familiar with any of the places you worked?”
“I doubt it.”
“Where did you train?”
“Home was the first place. Both my great-grandmother and grandmother are great cooks. I guess what you would call my professional training was under a guy named Francisco Cortez.”
“How long did you work at his restaurant?”
Rashad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Um, three years.”
“What kind of spot is it?” Jamilah reached for her phone. “I’ll look it up. What’s the name?”
“California State Prison.”
Jamilah’s thumb froze, hovering over the phone screen.
“Interesting name for a restaurant.”
“Perfect for a jail.”
She tried and failed to lighten the moment with laughter. It came out more like a burp. “You are kidding, right?”
“Straight talk, Jamilah. I was recently released from prison and am now on parole.” He delivered the news in the same vein as someone saying I attended Harvard and graduated last month.
“Oh…wow.”
Jamilah stood, walked to the door, and worked to change her expression from what-in-the-whole-hell to simply why-were-you-in-there. Even more, she wondered how quickly the conversation she’d had yesterday with her father would come back to bite her.
She returned to the table and sat. “Please excuse my reaction. Your answer completely threw me. I…had no idea you’d committed a…that you were a…”
“Criminal? It’s not a label I claim, but I don’t run from it either. There are worse crimes out there being done by people society respects. That’s a whole other story. As for my situation, engaging in illegal activities is what I’ve done, not who I am.”
As Jamilah listened, she mentally ran through a list of options. Who could she call? Who could cook? Who was available with zero notice? Who would work for what she could pay?
“I never thought to ask if you…had a record.”
“One in three brothahs in this country are in the system. But then, I suspect you know that, being a melanated sister yourself and all.”
“Mela-who?”
“Black,” Rashad explained. “One who possesses a large amount of melanin.”
“Duly noted,” Jamilah dryly replied. “I can’t say I’m familiar with that statistic, and I’m around plenty of Black people, or melanated as you call it, men included.”
“And none of them have ever been pulled over for DWB?”
Jamilah scrunched her brows.
“Driving While Black.”
Jamilah opened her mouth to refute his claim, then remembered an incident when she was in college.
And another that Walter had told her about before he got booted and suited and joined the city council.
She remembered stories shared by famous people who were pulled over and then apologized to after being recognized.
Why? For driving a nice car. For being in certain neighborhoods.
For shopping in stores considered above their pay grades.
Jamilah never allowed much reflection on these types of incidents.
Growing up with a father in law enforcement perhaps shielded her from such profiling and other forms of harassment.
That, and his rigid stance in both following and upholding the law.
She saw men in blue as the good guys and felt that if someone got arrested, let alone charged and convicted, they probably deserved it.
“Your food is some of the best I’ve tasted,” Jamilah said. “But I…”
“Don’t want to hire a felon?”
“As far as I know, I’ve never hired anyone with a criminal background.” Nor would her dad have allowed it.
Rashad shrugged. “It’s cool. Not the first time I’ve been turned down, won’t be the last. That five-letter f-word keeps brothahs like me locked to our past like a pair of handcuffs. It allows something that happened when we’re seventeen, eighteen, to affect us for the rest of our lives.”
“Is that when it happened? When you were eighteen?”
“Aw, hell no. I was a badass long before that.”
His bold, honest answer made Jamilah laugh out loud. Straight talk he’d called it, said without wavering and looking her dead in the eye. Something about his fearlessness was appealing. It showed a strength and resilience she wasn’t sure she possessed.
“May I ask why you went to prison? It’s really none of my—”
“There’s no part of my past I’m ashamed of, and I don’t live with regrets.” Rashad leaned against the back of the chair, comfortable and easy.
“Growing up, police were always patrolling the Jungle, stirring up shit.”
“The Jungle?”
“Yeah, the neighborhood my family moved to after…when I was ten years old. Had my first encounter at just eleven. I asked why they stopped me, what they wanted, and found my face smashed into the hood of a cruiser. Needless to say, that wasn’t the way for them to win friends and influence people, not me anyway.
That’s where the antagonism began and my hatred started for anybody wearing a badge and carrying a gun. ”
“My dad’s in law enforcement.”
Jamilah was a daddy’s girl from the womb and would check anyone who came for her father. It was her turn to look Rashad dead in his eye.
One second passed. Two. More.
“Your dad’s a cop,” Rashad finally repeated. “Good thing I’m only trying to be your cook and not your man.”
Jamilah smiled, even as his comment hit a raw nerve.
She had imagined that by now she and Walter would have been married, or at least engaged.
Instead, a few months ago, she’d learned of his recent engagement to a popular attorney in The Call newspaper.
While she knew ending their relationship had been the right thing to do, she missed being partnered up, missed the good times that she’d shared with her ex.
Of course this wasn’t a fact she’d ever acknowledge, at least not without a gun to her head.
“To answer your question, some friends and I were hanging out in my neighborhood, running a pharmaceutical operation.” At Jamilah’s confused expression he added, “Selling weed.”
“Ah,” she held out the word in understanding. “I see.”
“Nah, you don’t, but I won’t go into that right now.
Anyway, there was a gun in the car, a part of doing business and keeping from getting jumped or robbed.
A situation went down, and the next thing we know we’re surrounded by cops, getting searched and, of course, arrested.
I was charged with possession with intent to distribute, and illegal possession of a firearm, even though the weapon wasn’t mine.
We later found out it legally belonged to my friend’s father, who also owned the car.
That information didn’t matter. I was guilty by default.
Got five years. Was out in thirteen months due to prison overcrowding.
Three years ago, I was riding with friends. Got pulled over again for…”
“Driving while Black?”
“And male, four deep in the car. In LA more than two brothahs walking can be considered a gang. Of course the officers told another story, one about our ride fitting the description of a car reported stolen. That’s one of their go-to excuses.
Again it was later proven that car registration, insurance, everything was legit, but because I’d been caught in the company of other felons who just happened to be my cousins, my parole was revoked. ”
“Why didn’t you just say who owned the car?”
Rashad’s laugh contained no humor. “That’s not how it works in the streets. There’s more to the story, but being that your daddy is one of them, I’m sure you don’t want to hear it. Bottom line is that I did the bid. And here I am.”
“I’m sorry that happened. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Life is fairer for some than others. But I’m not here to play victim. I just want to cook.”
Jamilah straightened up and tried to shut down the sound of her law-enforcement father’s accusatory, judgmental voice going off in her head.
She closed out him dictating the steps to be taken to know the background of who was around her.
She wasn’t crazy about hiring a felon, but being between a rock and a hard place or, more specifically, a fried chicken leg and a catering gig, left her little choice.
And something about Rashad’s sincerity while sharing made her trust him.
“Everyone deserves the chance at a better life. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. A ninety-day pro…”
Rashad laughed, this time low and easy. He shifted his body, crossed one ankle over the other. “Don’t be nervous about putting me on probation, Jamilah. It won’t be the first time.”
She wasn’t nervous about her position, which she felt was warranted given the circumstances, but about how her nipples hardened at the sound of his laughter and how good he looked simply slumped against a chair with those long strong legs on full display.
“It’s standard. I’d do it for anyone.”
Not exactly anyone. She hadn’t done it for Blair but justified this discrepancy with the fact that her former chef had arrived with a stellar résumé and reference letters.
“Tell me more about your experience in California, the type of food you generally cooked and how many you served.”
The interview flowed smoothly after that, with Jamilah learning more than she ever thought she’d know about prison chow.
Given his vast experience with large crowds, she was confident he could easily handle the kitchen and also manage next week’s catering event.
He filled out an application, she gave him a tour, and they agreed he’d start that Friday.
All the while, her feminine flower was very much aware of his masculine might.
The attraction was incredible, but that’s all it could be.
They could be coworkers, cooking collaborators.
But that was where Jamilah drew the line.
The two of them were from different worlds. They could never be FWBs.
“Thanks for believing in me,” he said sincerely, pulling Jamilah out of her thoughts.
“What got you the job is your belief in yourself.”
Jamilah had been so caught off guard by and then caught up in Rashad’s revelation, she almost ran late for her appointment at the bank.
Her mind should have been focused on the loan she’d applied for and whether or not she got it.
Instead it was filled with thoughts of a self-proclaimed badass who looked like a god, had the swagger of a hip-hop star, and could cook like a world-class chef.